


Ain't It Thrillin'

by red_crate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Condoms, Consensual Infidelity, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Married Couple, Miscommunication, Panic Attacks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-12 07:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12954477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: “What happens when he finds us?” Peter’s words are deep but breathy, like he’s just as affected by the fantasy, or maybe just the actual fucking, as Stiles is.





	Ain't It Thrillin'

**Author's Note:**

> JuliBean accidentally inspired this fic, then a bunch of people enabled me on Discord.
> 
> Title from "Winter Wonderland." Happy holidays, ya'll! 
> 
> Info about the consensual infidelity in the end notes.
> 
> Also yay! This is my 50th Teen Wolf fic! *Throws confetti*

“Oh my God.” Stiles giggles as he lets himself be pushed into the coat room outside the gallery Peter’s law firm rented for the evening. “Did they really pay good money to let us stand around a bunch of sculptures of phallic symbols? What kind of law firm do you work for?”

Peter is grinning wolfishly, backing Stiles further into the tiny little room. His tie is still tied perfectly, but he discarded his suit jacket somewhere in the gallery and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows a little over an hour ago. Stiles kept stealing looks at the thick muscle on display until he finally worked up enough nerve to curve his palm over it while they made fun of some associate Peter apparently really hated. 

Now, those arms are pressing Stiles against soft jackets hanging along the wall. 

“We cover a multitude of sins, Stiles.” Peter arches an eyebrow, smirking. “But we mostly deal in contract law.” He ducks his head closer. “Is that really what you want to talk about, Stiles?”

A thrill shoots through him at that and at Peter’s closeness. He blinks and realizes that he is, in fact, in the coat closet at Peter Argent-Hale’s law firm holiday party, like some cheap fantasy. When Peter’s fingers trace down his neck, Stiles closes his eyes and tilts his head back. 

Reluctantly, he asks, “What would your husband say?” It’s depressing that he can’t let himself have what’s clearly on offer without putting up at least a token protest. 

Peter’s mouth brushes against his ear when he says, “He’s not here, is he?”

That’s enough to appease Stiles’ guilt, even if he does vaguely feel like he’s betraying the other half of his apartment gym crush. Chris and his beautiful sea blue eyes and tatted up arms. Stiles sighs and wraps an arm around Peter’s neck, holding him closer. Peter is a big boy and in charge of his own decisions; if he wants to cheat on his gorgeous husband with little ole him, then Stiles isn’t going to complain. 

“No.” He answers, lips tipping up into a conspiratory smile. He’s a dick sometimes, give him a break. 

That earns a lingering kiss, mouths sticking together from the sugar of the spiked punch they were just drinking. 

When Peter pulls back, he says cryptically, “‘S why I have you.” 

Stiles doesn’t bother asking what he means, decides it means that Peter’s marriage is somehow a cold one despite the affection he’s seen Peter and Chris exchange in the apartment gym. Tonight, not only is Stiles satisfying the role of  _ emergency office party date _ , he’s going to get Peter laid for the first time in too long. It’s enough to make Stiles let go of all responsibility and guilt for the night. 

His other hand snakes up to grab Peter’s tie and reel him in closer for another kiss, this one deep and leading. The way Peter’s tongue strokes over his rhythmically makes Stiles want more, want that tongue other places, showing just how good he can be with the body Stiles has spent more time drooling over in the gym than he has focusing on his own fitness. 

“Want you,” he pants the words out, fingers plucking at Peter’s shirt until the hem pulls free of his dress pants. 

Peter latches onto Stiles’ neck, pulling at the collar of his shirt to make room for what feels like is going to be a very dark, large mark by morning. Stiles’ cock kicks to life in his pants and all he can think about is stripping off these clothes right here and letting Peter fuck him on a mountain of designer coats. 

“Home.” It comes out like a promise, so Stiles lets Peter move away slowly. 

He doesn’t bother straightening his shirt, watching Peter’s ass move when he turns to locate their own jackets on the wall. 

“Ugh,  _ fine _ .” Stiles shrugs into his jacket when Peter holds it out. “Can I blow you in the car?”

Peter groans—the reaction Stiles had been angling for—and pushes Stiles back against the wall again. His hand drops to Stiles’ crotch, and he presses his palm against the hardness there. It feels possessive in a way it has no right to. Stiles arches up into the press. 

“ _ Wait _ ,” Peter commands. His eyes are dark and sparkling, and Stiles nods his head. 

The car is a tiny, compact,  _ expensive _ thing that feels like like money when he slides into his seat. Stiles has his chair cranked all the way back for leg room, and at each red light, he undoes one of Peter’s shirt buttons. By the third light, Peter catches him around the neck and kisses him hard, biting at his bottom lip. 

“Slut.” Peter is obviously pleased with his declaration. He captures one of Stiles’ hands and brings it to his lap so Stiles’ fingers can work against the hardness there. He’s just as big as Stiles had imagined, and he can’t wait to get his mouth on that, feel it push inside his body. 

Stiles keeps a steady pressure on Peter’s dick the rest of the way, rubbing his thumb along the shaft with just enough of a tease to feel the way Peter’s leg tenses and twitches in aborted motions. When he glances at the dash, he sees the speedometer moving up well past the posted speed limit. 

He kisses Peter’s neck and rests his head on his shoulder. “Slow down. We have all night, right? Can’t get off if we’re wrapped around a telephone pole.” 

Peter scoffs. “I’m an excellent driver.” He eases off the accelerator though, and Stiles rewards him at the next red light with a slow grind of his palm against Peter’s cock. 

They finally make it to the apartment building parking garage, all in tact too. Stiles doesn’t have a dedicated spot. Sometimes he has to park on the side of the street even though there are supposedly enough spots for each apartment in the building. Peter and Chris have  _ two _ assigned parking spots for their penthouse apartment that they own outright. Their second spot is empty. 

Stiles doesn't pay attention on the elevator ride up, too busy kissing Peter like his life depends on it. He gets maneuvered through the doors and down the hall to what Stiles assumes is the penthouse entrance. They didn't discuss where they were hooking up past “home,” but Peter didn't ask to make sure which floor Stiles’ apartment is on (the second one). When Peter pushes him up against another wall with barely a pause to unlock the door, Stiles gets a brief glimpse at the furnishings Chris and Peter’s lifestyle afford. 

_ Expensive _ is all he can really tell. Everything looks nice and high-end though. Real paintings, not prints or posters, hang on the wall alongside black and white photos of their history together. Stiles averts his eyes from the one that was obviously taken the day Peter and Chris got married. 

“Been thinking about this all night.” Peter's words are spoken in the small space between them as he shoves Stiles’ jacket down his arms.

Stiles works his cuffs open so his shirt doesn't get caught when Peter starts shoving that down as well. He's flushed from the buzz of alcohol earlier and the rush of arousal swimming through his veins. The feel of skin on skin when they both finally get their shirts off and press chest to chest pulls a groan from both of them. 

“Bed?” Stiles asks hopefully, kicking his shoes off and not even bothering to make sure they are out of the walkway. 

“I knew you were smart.” Peter grins against his mouth, fingers deftly undoing the fly of Stiles’ pants. When he gets the zipper down, Peter pushes his hand beneath the elastic of Stiles’ underwear and curls his fingers around the shaft of his cock. “This way.”

Peter backs them away from the wall carefully, never quite letting go as they move through the living room and past the kitchen to the hallway. He's literally leading Stiles by the dick as he sucks another bruise on Stiles’ neck. 

Not wanting to come across as completely useless, Stiles cups his hands around Peter's waist and pushes his fingers below the belt of his pants. Peter has an amazing ass, which makes sense considering the fact that Peter practically goes ass to grass when he squats weights in the gym. 

Neither Chris or Peter are meatheads, but they've got definite muscle definition and strength for days. Stiles likes working out so-so, prefers running and swimming to lifting, but being able to surreptitiously perv on the older, hot married gay couple that owns the penthouse was a good motivation to get his ass in the building's gym on a frequent basis. 

He pulls one hand away so he can undo the belt while he slips his other hand down farther to get a real grip. Peter's firm, and Stiles can't help but recall one of the fantasies he's had about watching Chris fuck Peter right there in the middle of the gym. He digs his fingertips into the flesh, moaning when Peter strokes his cock firmly. 

They've got to get the rest of their clothes off. 

It's as if Peter can read his mind—or just wants to get this going as much as Stiles does—because one minute they’re struggling with zippers and socks, and the next minute they’re completely naked on the bed. Stiles is flat on his back, star-fished out with Peter leaning over him. It’s a good place to be. 

“You look good enough to eat,” Peter murmurs before licking a long stripe up Stiles’ chest. He moves with his tongue, knees butting up to Stiles’ thighs and pushing them apart farther. “Mm.” He concludes his little exploration with a gentle nip at Stiles’ chin that is somehow adorable and terribly sexy in equal measures. 

Stiles pulls his legs up and plants his heels on the bed. He can’t help snorting when he asks, “Are you gonna make me the dessert?” His hand sneaks back to Peter’s ass again and gives Peter a guiding shove until their cocks rub against each other. 

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.” Peter’s words are punctuated with little hip thrusts that provide just enough friction for Stiles to whine in the back of his throat. He smirks almost fondly. “Come now, Stiles, where are your words?”

He doesn’t know why the things Peter says drive him crazy. Every short exchange in the weight room or foyer of their building ends with Stiles feeling like Peter has just said some  _ very _ suggestive things. Chris usually watches with an amused, almost dark look in his eyes. Sometimes, Stiles thinks they know exactly what kind of torture they put him through and  _ enjoy _ it. 

For a moment, Stiles wonders if they talk about him when they’re alone. Is this some kind of weird jealousy thing? He pushes the thought away, and focuses on answering Peter. 

Might as well go for broke. 

“Fuck me?” His tongue pokes out to wet his bottom lip, and he’s pleased when Peter watches. 

“That can be arranged.” Peter grinds his hips down in a dirty move that has precome blurting out of the slit of Stiles’ dick. “Turn over for me.”

Stiles scrambles to comply as Peter sits up so he can find the lube sitting on the bedside table. He doesn’t know why, but the knowledge that it’s a used bottle, one Peter and Chris have shared, makes him hide his face in the pillows and shiver. It’s not an unpleasant thought. 

He pulls a knee up so his ass is on display, knowing what Peter must be looking at when all movement ceases. Peter has a great ass, but Stiles isn’t exactly lacking either. He moans when his ass cheeks are spread by insistent fingers. He’s still a little loose from where he got himself off this afternoon in hopes of curbing his lust at the party. It isn’t going to take a lot of work to get ready now, and he tells Peter just that. 

“You’re going to be the death of me.” Peter complains, sounding heavily affected by that little admission. His forehead lands on Stiles’ shoulder for a second before Peter is playfully biting him. “You want it bad, don’t you, darling?”

He’s kissing along Stiles’ back—it feels like he’s kissing each mole on his skin—while he deftly slicks up one hand with lube. The first press against his entrance slides in easily, and he’s rewarded with a half noise of approval. 

“Tell me what you were thinking about when you did this to yourself,” Peter directs as he pushes his finger in as far as he can. He pulls it out halfway before adding a second one. 

Stiles doesn’t really want to, because he doesn’t want to draw attention back to the fact that they shouldn’t be doing this. Peter does something unexpected though, he asks. 

“Please.” The word is soft, deep. He sounds as if hearing Stiles’ fantasy is the only thing he wants in the world right now, maybe even more than actually fucking Stiles. 

Swallowing, Stiles turns his head to the side so he can catch his breath. He blinks in the darkness of the room—they didn’t bother turning on a light—and pushes his hips back. It’s not as if Peter somehow forgot about the ring on his finger and the man that usually sleeps in this bed with him. 

“You and Chris.” He whispers the confession, slamming his eyes shut anyway. Stiles tries distracting Peter by clenching around his fingers, like he can hold Peter in if he wanted to leave.

Instead of a curse of disgust, Peter hums invitingly. “Did you?” His fingers stretch Stiles wide enough to burn just the slightest. “Were you excited when I asked you to join me at my office party?

Stiles bites his lip, wondering how the fuck Peter manages to be so talkative when Stiles can barely rub two brain cells together. It feels as if every nerve ending in his body suddenly relocated to his ass when Peter’s fingers rub against his prostate. He nods his head rapidly, hoping that is enough. 

“I asked you to tell me.” Peter reminds him, fingers stilling right on that bundle. 

Stiles cock is practically drooling, and his balls feel tight with the edge of orgasm already building. 

He can’t help it when he says, “You asked about earlier.” Stiles bites the words out, rocking his hips in hopes of getting some friction on his dick. “Not when you asked me out yesterday.”

Peter is obviously smiling when he leans down to press another kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck. “I did. So, tell me, Stiles.”

He swears his name sounds like silk when Peter says it in that tone.

Stiles gasps out, “I thought about you two. Fucking.”

When Peter’s fingers slide out of him, Stiles groans and clenches around nothing. 

“You can be more specific than that, can’t you?” There’s slight movement as Peter puts on a condom and adds a little bit more lube to his cock. The tip of the condom crinkles against Stiles’ entrance when Peter positions himself. 

He doesn’t push inside until Stiles starts talking again. His face is burning, but it’s worth it for the delicious slide of Peter’s cock. 

“You and Chris fighting over who got to fuck me first.” He feels a little bit of shame in that confession, but it’s pushed right out of him when Peter slams his hips forward and grips his hips tightly. 

Peter groans. “What else?” He doesn’t give Stiles more than a few seconds to adjust to the stretch before he’s pulling out and pushing right back in, setting a harsh rhythm. “Who got you first?”

Stiles pushes up onto his elbows, ass up. “You.” He pants as the breath is fucked out of him. If the sheets were any less high-end, Stiles thinks his knees would burn against the fabric as he slides with each thrust. “You asked me first.”

“I  _ did _ .” Peter bites the words out, but it doesn’t quite sound possessive. Stiles doesn’t bother trying to figure it out, because the angle they’re fucking at now has him shivering and his orgasm building up again. 

“At the party. You…” Stiles loses his words in a loud moan. Peter wanted him talking, so he doesn’t bother attempting to keep quiet. “ _ Shit _ . You fucked my mouth at the party, but Chris found us.”

Peter slows his thrusts just as Stiles was wondering if it was going to be all over too soon for himself. The fingers on his hips move up his back in a caress before they curve over his shoulders. Of the two people he would have expected being man-handled by, Stiles would have assumed Chris. Now, his brain betrays reality by calling up well-worn fantasies of Chris fucking him. He lets himself be yanked back onto Peter’s cock. 

“What happens when he finds us?” Peter’s words are deep but breathy, like he’s just as affected by the fantasy, or maybe just the actual fucking, as Stiles is. 

Stiles goes loose in Peter’s hands, enjoying the power of Peter’s body. He widens his knees. 

“He was mad and punished us.” It comes out as a whine. Nothing is touching his dick now, not even the mattress. But for whatever reason, it’s working for him right now; he likes the tease and the frustration of not getting what he wants  _ right now _ . “Made you suck me off while he fucked me.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, but he pulls Stiles back and then up so his back presses against Peter’s chest, knees planted wide on the bed. The sound of his own heartbeat is loud in Stiles’ ears as Peter makes these tiny little thrusts that grind his cock against Stiles’ prostate. A hand lands on his dick, and he almost shoots right there except Peter grips it tight by the base. 

Teeth dig into the side of Stiles’ neck, and there's no way he's walking out of this without several bruises as consolation prizes. Chris might see them and figure out the timing. 

Peter squeezes his fingers around Stiles’ cock once, drawing him out of the sudden realization. Against his ear, Peter croons, “I love that head of yours. Such a vivid imagination.”

Stiles whines, feeling overwhelmed by the near constant stimulation inside coupled with the teasing denial of Peter's hand on his dick. Mostly though, his head feels like a mess with his own fantasies being laid bare for Peter, and Peter probing at them, coaxing it out of Stiles like he’s got his own dark imaginings. He clenches around the cock splitting him open, desperate to come. 

The words pop out of his mouth without thought, as Stiles’ eyes shut and his head tips back against Peter's shoulder. “I wish he was here.”

“ _ Fuck _ .” Peter curses harshly, and the world seems to tilt all over again. 

Stiles is pulled back into Peter's lap, cock disappearing for a moment before being pushed right back inside. Peter's on his back on the bed, hands holding Stiles up just enough that he can shove his hips up and up and up in a desperate staccato rhythm. 

He can't even think anymore. His hands are free and Peter's are busy, so Stiles braces one against the bed, twisting so he's at a more secure angle. His other hand though goes straight to his dick to work it over a quickly. 

Stiles doesn't call out anyone's name, but he does let out a loud shout when his orgasm rips out of him. Vision going dark for a second, and he keeps stroking his fist over his dick in the immediate after shock of that first spurt of come. His arm is starting to buckle where he's got a hand pressed to the bed, and all he can think about is Peter coming before he has to roll off of him and collapse in a sated puddle. 

Peter’s thrusts are erratic and short, clearly on the cusp of his own orgasm. He's making these hot “yeah” sounds under his breath that Stiles wants to commit to memory. Barely a minute after Stiles came, Peter is yanking him down on his cock and shuddering full-body as he spills inside. 

It's sexy, Stiles can't think of any other word. Peter is sexy. Fucking Peter is sexy. Talking about Peter's husband finding them is sexy. Stiles groans and manages to squeeze out one last dribble of come. His stomach and groin are an absolute mess, spattered with his release. 

Peter eases him over onto his side and carefully pulls out with fingers making sure to keep the condom in place. Stiles doesn't pay much attention after that, and assumes Peter takes care of things before he flops down next to him. He's warm all over and totally relaxed.

“Mm,” Peter makes a satisfied noise. One of his hands skims down Stiles’ arm, contact but not too much that the sweltering heat they worked up becomes too much. 

Stiles appreciates the fact that he wasn't immediately dumped out of bed and told to go home once they were done. He's tired after the surprisingly athletic sex. The thought of going home—even if all it would take is a short walk and a long elevator ride—is too much for Stiles to volunteer for just yet, much less be forced into. 

***

Stiles wakes up with a start. He's used to sleeping in odd places and at odd, impossible angles—a talent he's always had, and then exploited in college—but unless he's in his own bed with his own pillow he wakes up like this. His heart hammers in his chest.

“Remember where you are?” A voice calls from the doorway. 

Brain still just a bit slow from sleep even if his reflexes and heart are on high alert, it takes him a moment to understand it isn't Peter asking him. No, Peter is still lying next to him on the bed, sheet haphazardly strewn over his legs. He's clearly still naked just like Stiles...who is naked and has his feet resting on the pillows at the head of the bed. 

He scrambles to a sitting position, snatching a pillow up to cover his crotch, as Chris strides into the bedroom. Stiles' eyes slide to the bedside clock that reads  _ 5:23 _ in bright red numbers. He snaps his attention back to Chris when the other man comes to a stop. 

“Look, I'm…” 

Stiles has no idea how to explain this in a way that makes it any less not okay. Chris isn't stupid, and both Stiles and Peter are naked as the day they were born. The room still has a faintly musky scent of sex hanging in the air. 

What a time to remember Chris is a fucking  _ arms dealer _ . 

Stiles’ chest feels tight and his hearing is fading out. He's on the verge of having a panic attack. He slams his eyelids shut, and does his counting routine in attempt to fight off the attack. 

_ He's going to die here. Chris is going to kick his ass or shoot him, and he's going to die and his dad is going to find out what a shitty man his son turned into—having a stupid, meaningless affair with a married man almost twice his age—Stiles is gonna die and he couldn't even blame Chris too much for doing it because what kind of person knowingly sleeps with a married guy? _

He can't suck in enough air, and he feels stupid about it because he  _ knows _ what's happening and how useless it is to freak out—for his body to freak out like this—but he can't stop it. It isn't that simple. 

Stiles tries to keep his eyes on Chris. If he's gonna die, then he wants to take it head-on. The problem is, he's doubled-over as he tries to suck in air. He watches Chris’ legs move closer. A squeak strangles out of his throat when Chris sits down next to him. 

Chris is talking quietly. Stiles can't hear him over the rush of blood in his head at first, but the tone is soothing and calm. Chris works Stiles’ fingers free where they are tightly twisted in the covering on the pillow in his lap. He stares at where Chris’ thumbs rub against the back of his hands. 

“You're going to be okay. It'll pass.” Chris’ words finally break through Stiles’ mind. “Just breathe.”

Stiles is shaking and a little sweaty, but he's already able to get more oxygen in his lungs than a few seconds ago. 

Hands smooth down his back, and Stiles realizes Peter is awake. He has no idea when Peter woke up, if he was already awake when Chris came home or if Stiles’ panic attack did the trick. Stiles forces his muscles to relax and focuses on taking measured breaths. 

Every time he looks up at Chris, all he finds is a concerned expression. It's throwing him for a loop. After another few minutes, Stiles has mostly recovered. He feels wrung out all over again, without the benefits of orgasm being the cause. 

He's able to take a deep breath and ask, “Are you going to kill me?” He pulls his hands from Chris’, face heating up. 

Peter places a kiss on Stiles’ shoulder and answers for his husband. “Of course not.”

Chris seems irritated, mildly, as he asks Peter, “You didn't tell him?”

Stiles can feel Peter shrug behind him, but he isn't following their half spoken argument. He shakes his head. “Tell me what? What's happening? You're not pissed?” He presses the pillow closer to his groin. “Can I put some pants on for this?” 

Chris scoots back and makes a gesture for him to get up. Stiles does so as modestly as he can. Luckily his underwear and pants still lie crumpled on the floor close enough that he can bend over while sitting on the bed. He shimmies into them while Peter stands, completely at ease in his naked state, and rifles through a dresser until he finds a pair of pajama pants to pull on. His hair is poofy and he looks nothing like a man who was just caught cheating on his husband. 

Stiles narrows his eyes as he buttons his jeans. “Wait a minute… Are you saying you  _ knew _ we were going to sleep together?” He glances at Chris then pins Peter with his gaze. “You set me up?”

He doesn’t know how to feel about this, if it’s true. Stiles’ gut is twisting, and he still feels a little queasy from his panic attack. In light of realizing Chris isn’t upset, Stiles feels even more ridiculous for that. He searches for his undershirt and button up, hoping to get out of here before he can be made to feel any more humiliated. 

Peter stops him by grabbing his wrist however. “I’m sorry. I got caught up in the moment.” He has the audacity to look sincere. 

Stiles shakes his head and pulls away. He can see Chris standing behind Peter, expression concerned. Pointing back and forth between them, he says, “You two are fucked up. This is fucked up, and I don’t know what the fuck the end-game was supposed to be but I’m out.”

With that, he scrambles out of the bedroom and towards the entrance to grab his socks and shoes. At least he doesn’t need to worry about walking barefoot home. He can hear them calling after him, but Stiles hits the “close” button on the elevator until the doors slide shut and he’s in blessed silence, alone. 

In his own bathroom, Stiles stares at himself in the mirror a few minutes later. He looks rough, skin tacky with sweat and paler than usual. He’s got hickies and faint bite marks on his neck and shoulders. He looks like he was fucked good and hard. 

He turns on the faucet and wets a washcloth so he can clean his face off. He’s not shaking anymore, but when he looks back at the mirror, he still looks the same. 

Stiles is too amped up to sleep even though his body is screaming at him to rest. Instead, he slumps on his couch and turns on Netflix. He lets the last thing he was watching start back up, not paying attention to it while he analyzes what just happened. 

First of all, he knowingly slept with someone in a committed relationship. That right there says a lot about who Stiles is compared to the kind of person he thought he was. He’s never been the most moral person, but he’s never gone out of his way to make a dick move if it wasn’t at least meant to have a good result. He’s been cheated on himself, so why the hell would he voluntarily put someone else through that?

Then there’s the fact that it happened with someone he is going to have to see at least occasionally around the building. Stiles could alter his gym routine to avoid the Argent-Hales, but there’s still the fact that they live in the same apartment complex. It’s going to be awkward no matter what the situation was, even if Peter had been single. 

Stiles sighs and grinds his palms into his eyes. He shouldn’t have let his dick make the decisions last night. Fuck. 

He can’t stop circling back to what Chris had sad:  _ You didn’t tell him? _

Bitterness wars with a spark of hope in his chest. 

The only conclusion he can come to is that Peter and Chris must have talked it out in some form or another. They must have talked about  _ Stiles _ . 

Had Chris even really gone out of town? Was this some weird tit for tat thing where Peter was getting back at Chris for some other indiscretion? 

As if summoned by his thoughts, there is a knock at the door. Stiles thinks about ignoring it though, just hunkering down on his couch for the rest of the weekend. The knocking continues, and it’s still early in the morning. Stiles doesn’t want his neighbors to complain about the noise. 

It’s Chris and Peter, together. Stiles crosses his arms when he steps back to let them inside. He’s glad he changed into a pair of sweats and a comfortable shirt instead of staying in his pants from last night. He should have showered too. 

“What?” 

Peter starts. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first, and discuss things.”

Stiles’ face heats up, thinking that there wasn’t exactly a lot of time for talking when they had their tongues busy in each other’s faces. He shrugs petulantly. “Okay. You still haven’t told me what there was to talk about.”

“Stiles, what happened wasn’t illicit.” Chris says. “I wasn’t upset when I came home and found the two of you together.”

“We had already discussed the possibility of it before I asked you to accompany me to my office party.” Peter continues. 

Making a face, Stiles asks, “So this is some kind of kinky thing for you two? You sleep with some random guy and get off on the  _ idea _ of cheating on each other?” His voice is dripping with scorn, but he still can’t get past the feeling of being the butt of a joke. 

Yeah, he got a great orgasm and a fantasy fulfilled out of the deal, but he’s not thrilled with the fact that he hadn’t known what was going on from the start. Something about this also makes him feel even more aware of his single status, not part of anything special. Chris and Peter are so clearly a well worn relationship, that even in a bizarre situation like this, they speak and move around each other without clashing. Stiles can’t help the spike of despair that rises inside. 

“Yes and no,” Peter says. 

Chris takes a breath, hesitant all of the sudden. “I’m not saying it isn’t something that we did in the past, but this isn’t quite like that.” He and Peter exchange a look. 

Peter steps closer and lifts a hand up like he wants to stroke Stiles’ cheek, but Stiles ducks away from the gesture. He frowns a little. “We were hoping you might like to join us.”

Stiles blinks, mind freezing for a second. “Join you? What do you mean ‘join you’?” 

Chris shakes his head, muttering at Peter. “You should have  _ talked _ first.” It’s spoken like he spent the last thirty minutes chiding Peter already. 

Peter, for his part, rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know that, Christopher.” Focusing on Stiles again, he says, “Threesome? You’ve heard of that before, yes?”

Stiles does some eye rolling of his own. “Duh. But that definitely wasn’t a threesome last night. What was it, like some kind of weird interview?” Stiles suddenly remembers all the talking they did during sex. “Oh my God, were you  _ interviewing _ me while we fucked?”

Chris’ eyes widen at that, and he looks sharply at Peter. 

“No, darling. That was just for fun. Admittedly, I got carried away. I should have been clear with you when you brought up Chris being a reason not to move further.” Peter sighs. “I hope we haven’t ruined everything.”

Stiles stands still, thinking. “So… You just wanted a third for some sexytimes stuff.” It feels a little bit less like an insult when he thinks about it. Still weird, though. 

“More or less, depending.” Chris says. Then he rethinks his approach. “We would very much be interested in you joining us in bed once or twice, depending on what you wanted. But we’re also open to…  _ more _ .” 

“More?” Stiles drops his hands by his side in shock. “Like a triad? You—you’re into that?” He feels like it would be a good opportunity to make a joke about  _ Big Love _ , but decides against it, because his mouth has gone a little dry. 

Both the men in front of him nod their heads. 

“Wow.” He feels all mixed up inside, but it’s not all negative. Flattery is definitely swimming around in there somewhere. Flattery and interest. 

Chris gently tugs Peter back by the tail of his shirt. To Stiles, he says, “Just think about it, okay? Whatever you’re comfortable with and works for all of us. We can figure it out.” There’s a hint of a smile when he says, “And we can discuss it.” 

Stiles chokes out, “Okay,” and opens the door for them. 

Peter stops suddenly and reaches out again. Stiles doesn’t duck away this time but lets himself be pulled forward. Their lips meet sofly, a firm pressure. 

“Think about it.” He says when he pulls away. 

Stiles immediately looks at Chris, finding an intent expression on his face. Slowly, Stiles reaches out and cups a hand around Chris’ jaw. “Can I?”

Chris moves closer, lips parting and tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Yeah.” 

They go slow, not quite chaste but not too deep or too fast. Stiles can feel his heart speed up and arousal unfurls at the feel of Chris’ calloused fingers coming up to frame his face while they kiss. He’d say the kiss is a good argument to give their offer serious consideration. 

When they part, Stiles is breathing a little heavier. He’s not the only one. Chris’s pupils have expanded, and Peter moved close enough that his chest brushes against his husband’s back while they were kissing. Stiles gets a sudden flashback to his fantasies, the ones he shared with Peter and the ones he hadn’t. 

It’s definitely something to consider. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Consensual Infidelity: Chris and Peter have discussed, off screen, the idea of adding Stiles into the mix. There is no indication in the fic that Chris explicitly tells Peter it's okay to hook up with Stiles, but when Chris comes home to discover them, he is into it.  
> Disclaimer: JuliBean did not inspire the pseudo infidelity or threesome bit—lol—just the emergency office party date bit. 
> 
> [Come hang out with me on Tumblr](http://the-redcrate.tumblr.com).


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